You not only have a right to be an individual. You have a responsibility.
Eleanor Roosevelt
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I have been hungry since the moment my international flight from Philly to Rome disgraced Coco Chanel on the runway (and, I thought Italy was the fashion capital of the world). My stomach’s demanding growls mimic the rumbling sensation of the tires and concrete making contact. Practically starving, why have I been so picky when it’s come to Italian cuisine?
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My classmates and I crowd around the front door of a quaint restaurant humbly situated in a more private area of the city. Escorted through the dimly-lit dining room to the private garden, we are charmed upon entrance. It is not easy to find such a quiet, intimate street in Firenze.
Our group gradually fills the long, thin table, like ornaments adorning the sparse branches of Christmases past. The table bubbles with excitement as several, large wooden slabs are placed on the white tablecloth before us. Another charcuterie board that’s going to look better than it tastes. That’s when I see it.
Hello, little bread bite. Funny seeing you here.
Oh. Ohhhh. Fried dough, huh? Christmas came early this year.
These boards seem to have much more variety. I actually see some bright colors. Alongside the usual meat and cheese, there’s a bowl of what seems to be cottage cheese. My mind is quite certain that the spread can’t be cottage cheese, but my heart is overcome with joy at the idea of consuming nonsolid cheese.
I spread it on a bloated lump of fried dough. As my fingers and teeth compress the malleable dough, grease squirts into my mouth and drips down my fingers.
I’m shocked. During my time in Italy, I’ve eaten food that has been simple, and sometimes understimulating, comparatively. This treat is something I never would have expected.
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The warmth and richness of the dough makes the creamy cheese taste sour. Realizing I’ve incorrectly paired the two, I decide to try the stracchino on its own. Taking a spoonful into my mouth, I’m surprised by the lack of flavor and even more surprised that I like it so much. I grab another spoonful, overcome with curiosity about my new favorite charcuterie feature.
Luckily, I’m two seats down from Patrizia who is a well of knowledge. She happily lets us know the cup contains hand-made stracchino–a creamy, lightly-aged Italian cheese with no rind.
The stracchino peaks my interest in the rest of the board. I spot a tuscan crostini with chicken liver pâté—a baguette slice lightly brushed in olive oil. Atop this otherwise delicious toasted baguette slice sits a massive mound of dull, brown sludge. I mean, this is a hefty serving of sludge. I might even go so far as to say an alarming serving of sludge. It looks like someone sloppily mixed a few cans of moldy paint. Whatever the reason, I will not be complete until I eat this nasty antipasto.
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My wary lips quiver, encompassing the rigid crust and light crumb of the crostini. As the mush spreads on the tongue, I am met with a level of gaminess I thought was impossible.
I’m positive that a plain crostino or a pomodoro-topped crostino is delectable. But, nothing could have saved this precious, innocent, yeasty cherub from that atrocious chicken liver pâté.
Perhaps it’s the cynicism speaking, but I am utterly exhausted with the American perception of Italy. Yes, it’s beautiful. Yes, the food isn’t poisonous (though I might prefer it this way). And yes, I would break all four of my limbs ten times over for free healthcare (and it wouldn’t cost me a cent, if I did). But, do we really need to hear another white American talk about the ‘mouth-feel’ of deli meat?
Though disgusting, I wouldn’t call this antipasto particularly adventurous. I can see how some might find it quite an intrepid endeavor, but in Appalachia, fried chicken liver is just potluck food.
You don’t have to like something just because you were privileged to have had it. You can hate it and still be grateful for it.
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